


"There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand."

by Seesall



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Hannibal Lecter feeds other people human meat without their knowledge, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is a fucked up man, Hannibal Lecter is pining, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Jack Crawford Being an Asshole, Jack Crawford is obsessed, Mental Health Issues, Murder Mystery, Pretentious Writing, Short, Sort Of, Subtext, Very character driven, Will Graham Needs a Hug, Will Graham is Conflicted, Will Graham is a Mess, decapitation warning, dysfunctional courting, everything is a shitty metaphor, moral philosophising with Frankenstein, originally a school project hence the heavy handedness of the Frankenstein scene, plot is irrelevant, the investigation is a tool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 04:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19124461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seesall/pseuds/Seesall
Summary: Short fic set around s1 ep6 and s1 ep 8.Hannibal Lecter never loses his aplomb. Unless his prey is involved.A study of the concept of monster, applied to Will, Hannibal and Jack alike.'English is not my first language and it shows' club





	"There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand."

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my Will Graham, who listened to my ramblings, and to my English professor, who didn't laugh at me when I turned in this as my assignment.

Will Graham stepped in Dr. Lecter's office, feeling uneasiness steadily growing in him.

The man was there to greet him with a calculated smile: nothing in his straight posture, his tailored clothes or the elegant decoration in his office was short of deliberate. Scrupulously placed to make a specific impression.

Everything about Hannibal felt carefully planned in order to build an elegant and impenetrable façade. A pleasing mask to conceal any hideous blemish or deformity. However there was no way to tell the extent of said hideousness, or whether it actually existed. Ever the unreliable narrator in his own tale, Will often found himself pondering on even the plainest details, grasping on feeble certainties. Holding for his life to slippery grass, as the tidal wave of Insanity carried him further and further in a slippery slope of questioning and paranoia...

"Will." His voice resonated through his ears, kindling a deeply seated hatred and at the same time extinguishing the fire in his mind. "Come in."  
§§§  
"Have you been dissociating recently, Will?"  
They were sitting at opposite sides of the carpet, like magnets of the same polarity bound to be repulsed by one another if held too close. Hannibal elegantly reclining back in his chair, legs crossed and hands folded in his lap; Will slouching forward, hands nervously fidgeting and eyes tensely locked in semi-permanent eye contact.  
The latter grimaced at the former's question: ever since he had killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs in an act of self defence, he had been plagued by nightmares and mental 'blackouts'.  
"Sometimes, when I'm particularly tired."  
Hannibal interpreted the awkward silence that ensued as an invitation to change the subject. "I gather you are here to ask for help about a case, correct?"  
"Yes."  
"Then elaborate."  
Will Graham took a deep breath, then plunged in the recollection.

A rotting body, found by the cleaning personnel in a hotel room the very same morning at 3:47 AM, deprived of its head. Which was comfortably resting in the ice dispenser, where it was found by the forensic department, about an hour later. Jack Crawford wanted Will to do "his thing" and insisted that Hannibal joined him, for reasons Jack himself didn't feel necessary to specify.  
"Well, if Crawford so desires, I will be glad to assist you. Furthermore, it would be a pleasure for me to examine in person a practical application of your skill."  
Will's hands gripped the armrests slightly tighter: every word Hannibal was speaking loathsome and flattering at once. "He said he'll be waiting for us at the crime scene."  
Dr. Lecter's lips methodically curled up in a shark smile. "In that case, I suggest we do not keep him waiting."

***

The stench of putrefying meat assaulted Will Graham's nostrils as soon as he stepped foot in the hotel room.  
"The body was identified as Penelope Gardner." Jack Crawford's voice rang through his ears, barely attracting Will's attention. He stood in the middle of the room, watching as people swarmed in and out of the place, buzzing with activity; Dr. Lecter stood next to the door frame, separated from the others and with an inscrutable expression. "36-year-old businesswoman from Pittsburgh, here in Washington to attend a meeting. Her fiancé has recently arrived in town: they were supposed to meet here yesterday. We'll get his testimony as soon as we can."  
Will walked up to the headless body slouched forward on the ground; the forensic team stepped back, instructed by a wave of Jack Crawford's hand. He spent a whole minute kneeling next to the corpse, analysing every morbid detail with professional intensity, before moving to the nightstand. Skillfully avoiding the police officers and scientists working around him, he mapped out every detail of the room. He then circled back to the bloodied wall next to the door, thoroughly concentrated on his work. To the point of barely noticing Dr. Lecter standing a few feet away from him, and of ignoring entirely the obvious side glances some people were shooting at him.

"Will, are you ready? Are you comfortable enough with Dr Lecter's presence?" Jack Crawford - FBI special agent, Head of Behavioural Sciences and the only person in the room feeling entirely responsible and deeply concerned for Will Graham's mental safety - asked. Once the latter gave him a firm nod, Crawford instructed everyone to leave the room - except for Hannibal Lecter, who stood aside to make way for the flock of people exiting the crime scene. Those who knew the drill left without a word, while the younger recruits or the recently transferred people questioned under their breaths who was the hobo-esque looking man lurking around the crime scene. The last person to leave was Jack himself, giving Hannibal a glance before disappearing in the corridor. Soon enough, the room was left empty, safe for the two men: one facing the other, who in return was facing the beheaded woman.

"Go ahead, Will." His voice was irritating, yet soothing in its subtle condescension: the first emotion Will Graham had been able to discern from Hannibal ever since they arrived to the crime scene. Of course, Dr. Lecter - being a former surgeon - had every right to be used to far more gruesome scenes; however there was something undeniably creepy about his unabashed aloofness facing even the grisliest crimes. An abyss unfathomable even for Will's "pure empathy".

Turning to a more comprehensible depravity, Will brought his attention back to the present issue and closed his eyes. The darkness in front of him transformed with a swinging orange flash in a vision of the hotel room, restored to its state before the woman's death.  
"I knock at the door. She opens it and lets me in, without any struggle."

Hannibal's gaze was fixed - and his mind fixated - on Will Graham: the latter was standing perfectly still, no emotion disfiguring his chiseled features while he described the re-enactment, as it developed in his mind's eye.  
"I'm carrying a knife with me - I came here fully intending to kill. I pull it on her and slam her against the wall. Her guard was low enough to allow me to take her by surprise. She knows me." Will continued, fingers twitching lightly: in his head, Penelope is staring at his mind self, wide eyed and terrified. "I slit her throat, severing her vocal chords. I don't want her to awake the other guests. I didn't check if anyone was there."  
The minimal resistance the blade meets upon slashing flesh and skin, the coppery smell of blood as the woman falls to the ground, barely alive and choking in her own blood: all replicated perfectly in Will's mind, so lifelike he could almost forget he was not the perpetrator.  
"I close the door with my shoe, kneeling down next to her. I wait for her to bleed out, not leaving her side. Then I sever her head completely." Will could see his mind self rolling up his sleeves and grabbing the dead body, holding its neck straight as the knife patiently cut through fat, muscles, tendons and bone. "I want her head to be preserved. I need her head to be preserved. An act of love. On my way here I saw an ice dispenser hardly ever used. I wash my hands from the blood and carry the head to the machine." He saw himself prying the dispenser open, neatly placing the severed head on the ice and closing the machine again. Just as his mind self was about to leave through the hotel window, his eyes fluttered open; he found himself gazing at the headless corpse in front of him, numbness taking over his tired mind.  
"This is my design."

Hannibal dared not move: being able to properly experience Will Graham's ability was a privilege he savoured like a rare liquor. A privilege he felt entitled to, but a privilege nonetheless. "Remarkable." He finally commented after a few minutes, as Will blinked repeatedly, seemingly just waking up, and turned to face him. There appeared to be no violent glint in his eyes, no trace of the Evil he empathised with so effortlessly: it was as though the man had simply tried on a pair of shades, painting the world around him just as long as the lenses remained in front of his eyes. Looks however can be deceiving: the vacant stare lasting a few seconds too long showed the toll "looking" took.

Will let out a bitter scoff, his eyes starting to shift around the room. "Not the reaction I usually get."  
"How come?"  
Hannibal was far too clever to not have figured out the reason by that point: he wanted to hear it from Will himself, in a twisted experiment to gauge the man's trust in him.  
Will cleared his throat. "There have been... rumors circulating, concerning the, uh, legitimacy of my place as an FBI consultant."  
Hannibal's neutral mask almost cracked for a fraction of a second, barely giving a glimpse into a deeply seated disgust. "Freddie Lounds, I presume."  
Freddie Lounds, journalist from the online newspaper Tattlecrime.com, had done scarcely anything to conceal both her doubts regarding Will Graham's suitability and her shameless pursuit of an interesting piece of news, whatever it took.  
"I have to tell Jack what I found out." Will awkwardly muttered out, after a few seconds of tense silence.  
"Of course." Hannibal made way for the other man to exit the room, lingering a few seconds inside to take one last look at the beheaded woman. Shame. So much wasted meat.

***  
"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Dr. Lecter."  
"Don't mention it." Hannibal shook hands with Jack Crawford and invited him in his studio.  
Jack's desire to converse came as no surprise to the psychiatrist: they weren't foreign to discussions either related to work or to personal life. The latter resulted usually in a one-sided sharing on Crawford's part, as Hannibal Lecter valued his privacy above most things.

The psychiatrist invited Jack to sit on the armchair and motioned to a cabinet, taking out a bottle of liquor.  
"Patròn Tequila. I acquired it in México a few years ago and have been waiting for an occasion to open it ever since."  
"I'm worried about Will Graham."  
Hannibal's fingers stuttered to a halt for a second, before carrying on with pouring the liquor with apparent nonchalance.  
"Concern for one's kin is considered one of the main traits making us human."  
"He's a co-worker."  
"You still feel moral obligations towards him."  
Jack gladly accepted the glass of tequila, gazing at it as though ready to down it in one go. "I do."  
"Moreover, you have been asking a considerate amount of effort from him lately."  
The liquor swirled in its glass, motioned by Hannibal's expert hand. Jack stared guiltily at the floor.

You can stare into darkness for only some time, before said darkness starts polluting your soul: Will Graham's ability came with a price. The price was his sanity, gnawed away at by the deep plunges in the mentality of criminals. Will had been fairly vocal about his discomfort in 'looking', expressing an explicit preference in carrying on his work as a professor. Of course, Jack Crawford had dismissed all of his protests, under the pretext that Will Graham was his best agent: a nearly infallible weapon in the war against crime - against one criminal in particular.

"That's why I asked you to witness live his 'looks': I need you to keep an eye on him, help him when he's bordering the edge." The edge seemed to exist mainly in Jack's sharp, severe gaze. "I can't stop until I've caught the Chesapeake Ripper, you know it." His voice sounded strained, held back by his teeth involuntarily gritting.  
"Even at the expense of Will Graham' s health?"  
The answer - whichever that might have been - got lost, as Jack's phone started buzzing in his pocket. He stood up and apologised to Hannibal, who dismissed it with a polite wave.  
Two minutes later Jack Crawford was collecting his coat and hat, energy drained from his movements. "There's been another murder. Penelope's fiancé."

***

"The other body has been found in Washington as well, in the middle of a secluded alley. Its head was abandoned in a trash can nearby." Will Graham stood in the middle of the studio, watching as Hannibal, standing on a ladder, perused through a few books in his bookshelf. "The main suspect is Penelope Gardner's ex, Nathan Collins. He moved to DC 3 years ago, after the breakup."  
"A tough one, I presume," Hannibal interjected.  
"You presume right: there have been several threats of physical violence on Nathan's side and he was obsessively jealous. Apparently that's what lead to the breakup in the first place."  
"A simple matter of love mistaken for possessiveness."

Will Graham thought he had picked up some sort of twisted apathy behind the doctor's words: for some reason, he felt a shiver down his spine.  
"Appalling." He commented, hoping to elicit a reaction to prove his perception wrong.  
"Naturally." Lecter agreed, glancing down to the man while handing him the books he had chosen. "A primitive view of respect. Preserving your loved one's head and discarding your rival's."  
Will scoffed, setting the books on Hannibal's desk. "What does the fact that this makes perfect sense say about me?"

Dr. Lecter's foot faltered for the slightest fraction of a second, before landing on the step below: even in clumsy errors, the man retained a grace in movements that perfectly concealed the missteps. Will appeared not to have noticed the gaffe: he sat at the table, his brooding gaze fixed to the ground.  
"The same thing it says about me. It denotes an adequate experience in the field." Hannibal descended from the ladder, holding a book in his perfectly curated hand. "Precisely what is required of a person in our situation."  
"I'd say it goes a bit further than that, for me." Will Graham chuckled grimly, as his curious eyes finally darted up, fixing on the old leather-bound book Hannibal was holding. The golden letters minutely engraved in the precious material spelled out in an elegant font a name that taunted the man in its dramatic irony.

"I am sure you are familiar with the tale of Frankenstein." Dr. Lecter handed the book to Will, who held it like a rare creature known to be deadly venomous: gently and cautiously.  
The man nodded, carefully leafing through the refined - and definitely expensive - book while fishing the information out of his overworked brain. "Scientist wants to resurrect the dead, instead creating an abomination, destined to be his doom."

He could not help but suspect this tangent had very little to do with the ongoing investigation; however, he could not bring himself to complain, as his meetings with Hannibal almost always resulted in introspection on his side, no matter the starting point. Will had begun to associate Dr. Lecter with the inevitable confrontation with the dark coils twisting in the remotest parts of his brain and threatening to surface after any "look" in the mind of criminals, like ancient feral deities awoken from their slumber by obscene and gruesome rituals.

"Victor Frankenstein's demise was lead by his own hubris, the desire to defy God." Dr. Lecter's fingers brushed against the cover of one of the books lying on his desk. "Popular culture has lead to a misleading idea of his creation: it - or rather he - is perfectly capable of thought and speech, possessing a daresay above average intelligence and a inherently human drive towards affection and love. In the moment of his creation he's a white canvas, tarnished by his encounters with mankind."

"It let itself be corrupted." Will Graham scowled, closing the book and placing it on the desk, a foot away from the others. "If it had been a sentient being, it would have had enough self awareness to discern between good and evil, and to choose accordingly."

"Indeed." Hannibal's eyes subtly twinkled with interest, as he took a seat in front of Will. "However, he is hardly to blame: he saw how the world works and acted accordingly, molding himself in order to survive. The Creature's monstrosity is a reflection of humanity's and his fate was sealed the moment his creator turned away from him in repulsion."

"Can we blame him?" Will's treacherous mind wandered back to when Jack Crawford had first asked him to assist the FBI, and his stone-faced stubbornness whenever Graham tackled the subject of quitting the job. He wondered if Jack would have kept the same deadpan, had he succumbed to the darkness inside him. "He couldn't cope with the abomination he had brought into this world and disowned it, as a way to atone for his sins."

"Perhaps," Hannibal leaned forward, sliding the book in front of Will; the latter couldn't help but feel a concealed smugness behind the former's controlled expression: a puppeteer complacent with his manoeuvring, "the Creature would not have turned out the way he did, if Victor Frankenstein had accepted his responsibility as a de facto father and greeted him with the kindness and respect owed to a human being."

"Perhaps," Will Graham retorted with a pained sneer, slumping into his seat, "the Creature should not have existed in the first place."

***

The phone call arrived at 1 AM, a little after Hannibal Lecter had reluctantly closed his book and turned off the abat-jour on his nightstand.  
"Hello?" As drowsiness quickly dissipated, he found himself cringing lightly at the broad Lithuanian accent he had inadvertently slipped back into.  
"Dr. Lecter, it's Jack Crawford, sorry to bother you."  
"What is the matter?" Hannibal's brain was now fully operational, but it was hardly necessary for him to employ any mental energy in order to realise that something was wrong. Jack's voice on the other side of the phone was agitated and at times drowned by police sirens.  
"It's Will. He's been stabbed."  
Ten minutes later, Hannibal was hanging up the phone, the façade he had spent decades building dangerously close to cracking.

The summary - what Hannibal managed to get out of a shaken Jack Crawford - was that Will Graham went with a police squad to track down Nathan Collins, and they found more than they bargained for.  
Will had correctly figured out where the man was hiding, but in the commotion ensuing the blitz the criminal had pulled a knife on him and stabbed him in the thigh.  
He had been hastily taken to the hospital, while the criminal managed to escape in a plate-less stolen car.  
Jack had called as soon as he could: the blade did not nick the femoral artery, but Will was not quite out of the woods yet.

The explaining lasted 5 minutes; the remaining time was spent by Hannibal calming Jack down and keeping him away from a breakdown, while on the brink of one himself.  
Not quite what average people would call a breakdown; a slightly harsher than usual gust of wind can seem the prelude to a devastating hurricane, to a survivor of such natural disaster.

Hannibal did not consider himself bound by pettiness: his were fair retributions to whoever wronged him, never exceeding past cautionary limits, or risking to endanger himself. Getting involved, indulging in the feral instinct of personal revenge... it would have been a risk. Still, he could not let such a blatant lack of respect go unpunished.  
And make no mistake, Nathan Collins had disrespected him personally: by touching Will Graham, he had trespassed into a far deadlier beast's hunting ground, and now he had to pay for his error.

Finding the man had been easy: after murdering the object of his relentless obsession and the man who tarnished it, Nathan Collins would have most likely felt the need to go back to the roots of his depravity. Hannibal had dealt with a similar criminal, several years before. He knew how that puny man's mind worked inside out, without having met him even once.  
All it took was for him to ring Jack Crawford immediately and give the FBI an erroneous suggestion on Nathan Collins's possible whereabouts, to distract them long enough for a 4 hours and a half drive to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. A plausible mistake, a tiny indent in his reputation, but the result was worth the cost.

Hannibal's only regret upon looking back at the event was having been forced to use gloves, undermining the satisfaction of the act. He had found the man in a rundown building which belonged to the Collins family a few years before; he wasted no time. 

The local police would wake up the following day to find the severed head of 39 year old Nathan Collins impaled on an electrical pole, his liver placed inside his unhinged jaw.

Will Graham would wake up to the sight of a stitched leg and photographs from a crime scene shoved under his nose by a sheepish, yet anxious Jack Crawford.  
"Is this him? Is this his work?" He asked, as Will Graham put on his glasses to observe the crime scene. All the energy drained away from Jack, when Will confirmed his worst fears.  
"It's him. It's the Chesapeake Ripper."

Hannibal Lecter would not rest at all, dragging the headless corpse to his cellar and musing on his crime.  
A crime of passion, of sorts. A potential misstep that could have cost him his freedom, he thought, chopping up the body.  
Reckless.  
Out of character.  
Countless other definitions swirled in his mind as he gazed upon the dismembered body of his victim.  
Satisfying.

Nathan Collins had been in life a lowly man and a rude one at that, and Hannibal Lecter just happened to have a very strict code concerning how to deal with rude people...

***

"Ladies and gentlemen, bon appétit."  
Will felt like a fish out of water, among dignified people in equally dignified attire.  
He loosened up his tie, which began to feel more and more like a noose or a collar forcing him to remain tied down to arbitrary sets of rules imposed by an ever-changing society.

Hannibal stared at him from the head of the table, in satisfied contentment. He had insisted upon Will's participation in that night's dinner, claiming that it was in honour of his fast recovery and that him missing would have felt like "leaving eggs out of pasta alla carbonara", or another culinary reference Will had failed to properly appreciate. Nevertheless, he did not fail to appreciate - and detest at the same time - all the dedication Hannibal had put in such a lavish dinner. He could not help but feel a sort of malign relishing on the man's side when he complimented the food, but actively chose to brush it off.  
"This rib is exquisite." Jack Crawford commented, the mouth-watering meal enough to make him temporarily forget about the Chesapeake Ripper. "What animal is this?"  
"Pork." Hannibal replied, taking a sip of wine.  
A chill ran down Will Graham's side, not leaving him throughout the entire dinner.

***

Will Graham would have loved to simply slip out of the house unnoticed, but Hannibal's gaze seemed to accompany him everywhere, so he settled on saying goodbye at least to the host.

§§§

"Thank you for the feast, Dr. Lecter." Will shifted his weight and held his crutches under his arms, in order to shake hands with Hannibal. "And for your numerous visits in the hospital."

Hannibal smiled politely, accompanying Will to the front door. "It has been my pleasure. And I do have to apologise."  
Will frowned, buttoning up his coat as he struggled to maintain eye contact. "Why? You don't need to."  
"Had we talked more of the criminal, perhaps you would have-"  
"Dr. Lecter."  
Will for a split second thought he could perceive a moment of genuine surprise on Hannibal's face; the man was probably not used to being interrupted. Still, the impression lasted a fraction of an instant, and before he knew it, Will Graham was staring once again to a perfect mask.  
"Yes, Will?"  
"I've been meaning to give you this all night, but I, uh, I couldn't bring myself to."  
Hannibal's hand settled on the doorknob, as he stood with perfect posture observing the man rummaging through a worn out briefcase. Soon, his fumbling hands produced a leather-bound, blood-stained book.

"Frankenstein." Hannibal's arms elegantly stretched in order to take the book Will was awkwardly holding out. "I assume it got caught in the middle of the action."  
"I'm sorry, it must have cost you a fortune."  
Hannibal dismissed Will's apologies with a friendly - and patronising - wave of his hand.  
"Do not even mention it. This was hardly your fault, after all. And it is no longer your concern."  
"Yeah, I suppose." Will frowned once more, a myriad of different questions seeping in his mind. "I still don't understand why the Ripper struck. Why Nathan Collins?"

Hannibal's façade held together. "I was under the impression that the Chesapeake Ripper selected randomly his victims."  
Will stimmed by blinking repeatedly while ceaselessly twirling a crutch in his hands. A guest passed by and murmured something to another snickering guest. Both Will and Hannibal either did not notice or silently and mutually decided to ignore them. "Not this time. This time he knew exactly what he was doing and why. And to whom."

Hannibal Lecter gazed at the man in front of him: a worthy opponent in his twisted game of chess and the single most interesting person he had met so far.  
Will Graham kept his stare fixed on Hannibal's eyes for a full thirty seconds, before the latter handed the book back to him. "Far from me to wish you to remember this dreadful experience, but I would like you to keep this book."  
Will simply nodded, keeping the briefcase open long enough for Hannibal to slip the book inside. Then, he closed it and - balancing it and the crutches - made his way out of Dr. Lecter's house. "Thank you. For everything."  
"Do not even mention it. Drive safely, Will."  
The last image Will Graham had of Dr. Hannibal Lecter that night was his aseptic friendly grin, as the heavy door swung shut, engulfing the man in shadows.


End file.
